In a Glass Darkly by J. Sheridan Le Fanu (10 best novels of all time TXT) 📕

near the middle; and in the space thus cleared, there stood with a surrounding flight of steps, a small Greek temple or shrine, with a statue in the centre. It was built of white marble with fluted Corinthian columns, and the crevices were tufted with grass; moss had shown itself on pedestal and cornice, and signs of long neglect and decay were apparent in its discoloured and weatherworn marble. A few feet in front of the steps a fountain, fed from the great ponds at the other side of the château, was making a constant tinkle and plashing in a wide marble basin, and the jet of water glimmered like a shower of diamonds in the broken moonlight. The very neglect and half-ruinous state of all this made it only the prettier, as well as sadder. I was too intently watching for the arrival of the lady, in the direction of the château, to study these things; but the half-noted effect of them was romantic, and suggested somehow the grotto and the fountain, and the apparition of Egeria.

As I watched a voice spoke to me, a little behind my left shoulder. I turned, almost with a start, and the masque, in the costume of Mademoiselle de la Vallière stood there.

“The Countess will be here presently,” she said. The lady stood upon the open space, and the moonlight fell unbroken upon her. Nothing could be more becoming; her figure looked more graceful and elegant than ever. “In the meantime I shall tell you some peculiarities of her situation. She is unhappy; miserable in an ill-assorted marriage, with a jealous tyrant who now would constrain her to sell her diamonds, which are⁠—”

“Worth thirty thousand pounds sterling. I heard all that from a friend. Can I aid the Countess in her unequal struggle? Say but how, and the greater the danger or the sacrifice, the happier will it make me. Can I aid her?”

“If you despise a danger⁠—which, yet, is not a danger; if you despise, as she does, the tyrannical canons of the world; and, if you are chivalrous enough to devote yourself to a lady’s cause, with no reward but her poor gratitude; if you can do these things you can aid her, and earn a foremost place, not in her gratitude only, but in her friendship.”

At those words the lady in the mask turned away, and seemed to weep.

I vowed myself the willing slave of the Countess. “But,” I added, “you told me she would soon be here.”

“That is, if nothing unforeseen should happen; but with the eye of the Count de St. Alyre in the house, and open, it is seldom safe to stir.”

“Does she wish to see me?” I asked, with a tender hesitation.

“First, say have you really thought of her, more than once, since the adventure of the Belle Etoile.”

“She never leaves my thoughts; day and night her beautiful eyes haunt me; her sweet voice is always in my ear.”

“Mine is said to resemble hers,” said the mask.

“So it does,” I answered. “But it is only a resemblance.”

“Oh! then mine is better?”

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I did not say that. Yours is a sweet voice, but I fancy a little higher.”

“A little shriller, you would say,” answered the De la Vallière, I fancied a good deal vexed.

“No, not shriller: your voice is not shrill, it is beautifully sweet; but not so pathetically sweet as her.”

“That is prejudice, Monsieur; it is not true.”

I bowed; I could not contradict a lady.

“I see, Monsieur, you laugh at me; you think me vain, because I claim in some points to be equal to the Countess de St. Alyre. I challenge you to say, my hand, at least, is less beautiful than hers.” As she thus spoke, she drew her glove off, and extended her hand, back upward, in the moonlight.

The lady seemed really nettled. It was undignified and irritating; for in this uninteresting competition the precious moments were flying, and my interview leading apparently to nothing.

“You will admit, then, that my hand is as beautiful as hers?”

“I cannot admit it, Mademoiselle,” said I, with the honesty of irritation. “I will not enter into comparisons, but the Countess de St. Alyre is, in all respects, the most beautiful lady I ever beheld.”

The masque laughed coldly, and then, more and more softly, said, with a sigh, “I will prove all I say.” And as she spoke she removed the mask: and the Countess de St. Alyre, smiling, confused, bashful, more beautiful than ever, stood before me!

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “How monstrously stupid I have been. And it was to Madame la Comtesse that I spoke for so long in the salon!” I gazed on her in silence. And with a low sweet laugh of good nature she extended her hand. I took it, and carried it to my lips.

“No, you must not do that,” she said, quietly, “we are not old enough friends yet. I find, although you were mistaken, that you do remember the Countess of the Belle Etoile, and that you are a champion true and fearless. Had you yielded to the claims just now pressed upon you by the rivalry of Mademoiselle de la Vallière, in her mask, the Countess de St. Alyre should never have trusted or seen you more. I now am sure that you are true, as well as brave. You now know that I have not forgotten you; and, also, that if you would risk your life for me, I, too, would brave some danger, rather than lose my friend forever. I have but a few moments more. Will you come here again tomorrow night, at a quarter past eleven? I will be here at that moment; you must exercise the most scrupulous care to prevent suspicion that you have come here, Monsieur. You owe that to me.”

She spoke these last words with the most solemn entreaty.

I vowed again and again, that I would die rather than permit the least rashness to endanger the secret which made all